


It's Always A Nightmare

by Sunshinecackle



Series: You Were The Young Man In The Costume That Was Hard To Ignore [7]
Category: South Park
Genre: Fluff, Gay, Gore, M/M, Nightmares, Slash, Slight Sickfic, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 23:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshinecackle/pseuds/Sunshinecackle
Summary: Mike wasn’t the only one plagued with nightmares, but he wasn’t going to know that.





	1. Black Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So… I’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately, and this sort of happened when I was listening to Calling by Birthday Massacre. I dunno, it sort of just fell into place on paper, and I thought I’d get it typed up while I needed something to do. I hope you enjoy!

Rolling over and pulling Firkle closer to his chest, Mike hummed happily in his sleepy daze. Warm sunlight filtered in through the gap in the curtains. Dust floated through it as if to tell Mike he should be cleaning, not sleeping, but he ignored the sentiment. Odd as it was to have a tender moment with Firkle, what he found even stranger was how limp the younger male was in his arms.

“Firkle?” He murmured into the goth’s ear, and every muscle in Firkle’s body clenched. His heart hammered so hard in his chest and ears he knew Mike could hear it, too. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“Lie back.” Firkle bit out, jaw clenched until he heard the grind of his teeth drown out the pounding in his head.

“Okay…” Mike was really worried, now. Firkle was only ever this tense when around his parents or Michael. Laying back, Mike tapped his side for the goth to curl up against him. Instead, Firkle flipped over and straddled his stomach, and Mike’s hands shot out to steady the goth.

He saw the glint of the knife too late.

“W-Why?” He managed to croak, feeling the serated edges of the knife catching fire in his chest. Firkle twisted the knife, plunging it deeper, and Mike screamed; except he didn’t. A pathetic gurgle left his lips as blood spurted from his lips and he gagged on the acrid scent of death filling his nose, his lungs. Or, maybe, that was the feeling of blood pooling there.

Blood that Firkle was practically bathing in. The nineteen year old would dip his hands down into the crater that he’d made in Mike’s chest, reverent as he scooped it out and splashed it on his face. It looked as if he were simply washing soap from his face, like Mike had seen him do a thousand times. The thick snapping of several of his ribs drew his attention, mostly because of the odd shaking of his arms, the almost elastic feeling of skin being peeled away. At this point, the pain had given way to a cool numbness. 

The last thing he saw was dark eyes flashing, a purple painted smile, and Firkle biting into his heart like a ripe apple.

\---

Shooting up in bed, Mike shrieked, hair sticking to his damp neck and forehead. Panting, eyes wide and wild, he glanced to his right and found Firkle’s side of the bed cold and unrumpled. Slowly peeling back the soft satin covers, he climbed out of bed and shuffled into his slippers and robe out of habit.

The faint pounding of drums lead him down two flights of stairs, through the large basement and, finally, to a room they had only managed to soundproof half of. Every crash of the cymbals and baritone of the bass drum came through loud and clear this close. Mike yawned behind his hand, if only to blame that for his red, teary eyes.

“Firkle?” He questioned, opening the door cautiously. He couldn’t immediately place the song the goth was playing, so gauging his mood was impossible.

But the beat didn’t stop.

Firkle had his headphones on, naturally, which meant he’d never get the goth’s attention in the doorway. Carefully toeing around cords and equipment, Mike gently waved not far from the snare drum. It was probably pure dumb luck that he didn’t get his hand broken by those rapidly pounding LED drumsticks. Tugging off his headphones as if they’d burned him, Firkle let them land around his neck as he scowled.

“What? I _thought_ you were asleep.”

Ah, wonderful. Firkle was in a bad mood. Mike flinched and recoiled before he lost his hand.

“I was… You, uh. Woke me up.” Well, it wasn’t _exactly_ a lie.

“If you would help me finish the soundproofing, you would still be asleep.” Firkle accused, his eyebrows drawing in like curtains over his oceanic blue eyes.

 _Doubtful._ Mike thought, feeling his hands beginning to shake, sweat cold and clammy on his entire body.

“I just… Wanted a kiss. And to know you’re alright. Maybe bring you back to bed. It’s nearly sun-up.” And a grumpy Firkle could always use a nap.

“I’m fine.” He didn’t _sound_ fine, he _sounded_ pissed. “Come get your kiss. But I don’t want to sleep.”

“Come on, baby bat.” Mike murmured, close enough suddenly to remove the aviator headphones from his lover’s neck. Planting a gentle kiss on his lips, Mike cupped the goth’s back with one arm and scooped up his legs in the other. Carrying a squirming Firkle was still too easy, and they left his studio with the flourish of Mike’s robe. “Some sleep will help your sour mood.”

“I _want_ to be sour. I’m pissed.” Firkle informed, pushing weakly at Mike’s shoulder. It didn’t give him much room but it _did_ help get his point across.

“Then lay with me, rest and stew in your revenge plans. What happened?” Mike nuzzled his cheek and Firkle had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. How could one man be so damn precious? A younger version of himself would have gutted him for such a thought.

“...My bitch-ass egg donor decided I was a runaway and lied about my age. Apparently the cops are looking for me, and I don’t want to go back.” Okay, so part of that was a lie. He _was_ pretty pissed about that, but it wasn’t why he was up. Being angry was always preferable to being scared.

“I see… I… Firkle, I won’t let them take you if you don’t want to go.” He finally said, laying his lover down under the soft, goose-down covers. Kissing his forehead, he crawled over the other, because the only acceptable time apart was none. Tugging Firkle in tight, he kissed his cheek. “I promise you that.”

“What are you going to do? Politely decline?”

Mike gave a sheepish grin. Of _course_ that had been his plan.

“You are _so lame_.” Firkle giggled breathlessly as Mike’s lips found his heavily freckled shoulder. The clump he liked best to kiss and suck on always made Firkle laugh.

“Maybe, but I love you.” Mike chuckled. Even if Firkle was possibly the scariest person he’d ever encountered.

“You do.” Firkle smirked, yelping as Mike turned him over like he was a ragdoll.

“It’s time to sleep.” Mike informed through another yawn. His fear had nearly melted away, even if Firkle was still a rather real threat laid against his chest. “Goodnight, dear heart.”

“...Goodnight, Mike.”

A solid five minutes passed before Firkle’s dozing was interrupted.

“Firkle? Are you still awake?”

“No.” 

“Oh, good. Can I ask you something?” Something about the tense line of Mike’s body against his back put Firkle on edge.

“I… Yes?”

“Would you ever… Stab me? And bathe in the blood?”

Had Mike been able to see his face, Firkle would have agreed. It did sound like something that he would do. After a long pause, he finally earned his answer, right before asking if the younger had fallen asleep on him.

“I… Have become attached to you.” He admitted softly, slowly, a careful tone in place, “The short answer is ‘no, not you’.” 

“S-someone else, then?” Mike’s anxiety was wearing on Firkle’s already frazzled nerves.

“I would drown the world in blood if it meant I could stay with you.”

“Uh… Thanks. That’s-- That’s sweet…?” In a weird way, it really was. A few years ago, he probably would have drowned Mike in his own blood just to get away from him. It was odd, the path they had taken from rivals to somewhat friends to lovers. Still, the sentiment was oddly reassuring.

“ _Goodnight_ , Count Fagula.” Firkle stressed, not liking being seen as soft. It took mere minutes for him to feign sleep convincingly enough to stop the questions. Mike was out in a blissfully dreamless sleep soon after, and despite his wishes to the opposite, Firkle found the strong arm around his middle a good, warm reminder that he’d be okay. That he could sleep. And he did, finally losing his conscious thoughts as the morning sun tried to peek through the curtains.


	2. Cold As The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Firkle hated talking about his dreams when they involved Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I’d get the second part done up. I finally think I can sleep, hopefully. I will probably work on more things later. ; u; Hope you guys enjoy!

The ice cracked, snapping and crunchy beneath his feet. A long fissure opened up between his legs, and he shot Michael a pathetic, pleading look.

“Huh. Looks like we were right, baby.” Michael began, voice cold and oddly mirthful, “You _could_ stand to lose some more weight.” The laughter that poured from his sneering lips chilled Firkle more than his fear and panic combined. It crashed into him like a physical blow to the chest and he knew, in that moment, that Michael wouldn’t help him.

“M-Michael--” Firkle croaked, chancing a step forward. Why had he pushed him out so far? The winter freeze was ending, and spring was bringing a quick thaw despite the snow still piled up to his knees. Tears leaked down Firkle’s cheeks as the ice finally gave a loud crack, sending him plummeting down into the frozen pond. 

Chunks of ice far too large for him to push away swarmed him, and he heard nothing but the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat in his ears. The last thing that broke through the haze of fear was a single sentence.

“I thought you weren’t afraid of drowning, Firkle.”

\---

Jerking so hard he fell out of bed, Firkle hit the floor hard enough to rattle his bones. Heart jammed in his throat, he panted and coughed, feeling like he might vomit. Surging to his feet, he raced for the bathroom, spilling stomach acid straight into the toilet. Half of it burned through his nose, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t _breathe_. 

Coughing and sputtering loudly, Firkle finally wrangled his retching under control. Tears leaked down the sides of his face, and he wiped his mouth and blew his nose on some of the stupidly expensive toilet paper Mike insisted on before flushing. Carefully rising on quaking legs, he brushed his teeth for as long as he could stand it before rinsing. Unable to get Michael’s face out of his head, the younger goth returned to the bedroom he shared with his boyfriend.

Mike looked so peaceful and impossibly young in his slumber. Firkle was glad he hadn’t woken him, at least. Carefully making his side of the bed, he toed on his slippers Mike insisted he wear around the house. With that, he was off to his studio in the basement. He needed to do something with his hands, and hitting something sounded perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! Funny that I would type this up because I don’t want to sleep because of nightmares, but there we are, anyway. I hope you guys enjoyed!


End file.
